


Well. I'm Not Going Fucking Caroling

by anti_ela



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Multi, Unrequited Castiel/Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:12:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti_ela/pseuds/anti_ela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A case, huh.”</p><p>“Yes,” Sam says.</p><p>“In Montana. At a ski lodge.”</p><p>“Stranger things have happened, Dean.”</p><p>“And just so we’re clear, this case? You want to work it over Christmas.”</p><p>Sam screws up his face like he’s really thinking about it. “Gosh, was that this month?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well. I'm Not Going Fucking Caroling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizchester/gifts).



> this was written for a fandom secret santa event

Sam thinks he’s being subtle, but Dean’s not actually a moron.

“A case, huh.”

“Yes,” Sam says.

“In Montana. At a ski lodge.”

“Stranger things have happened, Dean.”

“And just so we’re clear, this case? You want to work it over Christmas.”

Sam screws up his face like he’s really thinking about it. “Gosh, was that this month?”

“Sam.”

“Dean.”

Dean massages his temple with one hand. “And while we’re on this ‘case,’ and people die?”

All emotion drains from Sam’s face. “Y’know what, Dean? We’ve never been to Hawaii, but last I heard, it’s not actually a smoking ruin. We are not the only capable people on the planet, Dean! I mean, Garth can barely tie his own shoelaces, but he’s ganked, what, thirty demons by now? So do you think maybe you could hang up that cross for like two weeks? Could you do that for me?”

“Isn’t Hawaii always on fire because of volcanoes?”

“Whatever, Dean, you’re going, I’m going, Cas is going, we’re all going. And you know why?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Do I care?”

“Because you need a fucking break. And more importantly, if you don’t take this break, I am going to suffocate you in your sleep. Are we clear?”

“Jesus—yes. God.”

Sam settles back in his seat. “Thank you.”

Before long, Sam has drifted off to sleep, and it’s the right time of night that all Dean has to do is scan the AM stations until he finds Coast to Coast AM. The theme tonight is angels and heavenly messengers, and Dean entertains elaborate fantasies where all tonight’s nutjobs meet an angel dick who thinks they need to learn a lesson. Because angelic messages? Not that great.

Sometimes he wonders how the host manages not to break down into helpless giggles. Like the lady who thinks her kid’s a prophet because she had a dream and he told her it meant blah blah blah whatever. I mean, the host definitely seems like he’s in on some things—Dean’s heard a few shows where the guy gave solid advice—but this crap? Really?

“That’s not even how prophets work,” he tells the radio.

His eyes go to the rearview mirror which shows, as it should, an empty seat. In the old days, though—

But Dean is different, too, and instead of staying silent, he says, “Cas, you wanna come to Montana with us? We’re in Fuckall, South Dakota, traveling west on I-90, just passing mile marker—“

The smell of metal, and—“Your car is fairly distinctive, Dean.”

“Come on, there are like five hundred miles to this thing.”

“Yes,” Cas says.

Dean rolls his eyes, but only says, “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. Sam’s invitation was worded very sweetly.”

When he looks in the mirror, Cas’s eyes have laugh lines around them. “Ass.”

Cas’s lips twitch, and Dean finds himself glad to see that the old, slack grin is gone.

He turns down the radio, and they just drive. With each passing mile, Dean becomes aware of another sound, another layer: Sam’s even breathing; the purr of the engine; the whisper of snowflakes against the windshield; the murmur and eventual static of the radio. He does not have to think to know the exact speeds Sam sleeps best at. He does not have to look back at Castiel to know that the angel considers every car that passes them by. He wonders, briefly, if Cas can still see the paths of everything, if he knows where each car is going, where it will be: but this Cas—this somber, thoughtful, quiet Cas—this is the only one he wants to think about.

These moments of silence between them, when he is not expected to speak, when it’s okay for him just to exist—this is what he treasures.

The Impala winds through the grey night, leaving nothing to mark its passing.

* * *

 

> _“I still can’t believe you talked me into this,” Sam said, looking up at the lodge._
> 
> _But Brady just shook his head. “You’re gonna love it. Besides, there’s someone I want you to meet.”_

They arrive just before dawn. Sam wakes the instant they stop moving, yawning. When he sees the cabin, he smiles and looks at Dean. “It’s nice, right? The lodge is fancier, but I figured, you know, uh… well, I mean, you know.”

Dean nudges Sam with his elbow. “It’s awesome, Sammy.”

The smile is back, wide and bright. “I’m glad.”

They are unpacked soon enough, and Dean, when he sees the den, has been unable to talk of anything beyond building a fire for the past twenty minutes. Finally, Sam tells him to get out and not to come back without tinder.

When Dean closes the door, Cas says, “I could have done that.”

Sam shrugs. “Gives him something to do. He gets itchy. Besides, I needed to talk to you about Dean.” Something about Castiel changes—though he is already standing still, he seems to gather himself tighter, straighter, as if he’s more concentrated than before—and not for the first time, Sam wonders if the difference he senses comes from the movements of unseen wings.

He swallows and looks down at what his hands are doing, but keeps his voice even as he says, “What are you getting him for Christmas?”

Without looking up, Sam knows that that tightness, that bundled power, has been released. “I had not considered it.”

“Yeah, I don’t really know, either. It’s not like I could just get him a DS, y’know?”

Cas doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he says, “You’ve been here before, Sam.”

Sam’s hands clench.

“But you don’t want Dean to know.”

Sam nods, swallows.

“Okay.”

Cas moves over to the meager book collection that travelers have left behind. Sam watches as the angel’s fingers rest on the spine of a paperback, as the warrior of God picks up something from 1994’s New York Times bestseller list and looks over it closely. Taking it over to the couch, he removes his coat and folds it in his lap. As if removing clothing to be more comfortable was a thing. As if Cas could be uncomfortable. Could he?

And Dean’s voice from years ago: _Maybe angels don’t need to breathe._

Does Cas breathe now? He hadn’t been checking, but maybe—

“Sam,” Cas says, eyes still on the book in his lap. “I’m only reading.”

“Did you read my—?”

Cas looks up, lips pressed together. “You were starting to hyperventilate. Since I am the only other being in the room, presumably I was the cause of your discomfort. I’m fine.”

“Dean’s right,” Sam says, voice soft. “You are different.”

Again, the tightness returns, but just as quickly it dissolves. “Yes,” is all Cas says.

Sam flushes and looks away. “Well,” he starts, but he can’t think of what should follow this; so instead he goes to the kitchen and makes an inventory of their supplies.

The cabin comes stocked with basic staples, so Sam spends the next thirty minutes making no-bake granola balls out of oatmeal, peanut butter, and the odds and ends he finds in the cabinet. Dean’ll be pissed and might even dig out the vienna sausages he’s been threatening Sam with for years, but whatever. If he wants to eat, he’s eating this, and that’s all there is to it.

* * *

It no longer occurs to Castiel that xy could find the answers to the Winchester boys’ oddities by seeking answers in their souls. Though such things are simpler, Castiel finally understands that there are things that lie dormant in each of us that are best not roused. No more is xy but a voice in the choir, meant only to sing as appointed, and never to question the song. Still, there was something fulfilling about being part of a Host so mighty…

But this family, this life, this is what xy has now: so this is what xy will treasure.

Castiel notices that xy has been thumbing over a button that had been lost in Purgatory. Xy frowns and drops xyr hands, letting the already-ignored book slide off xyr lap. It is strange to be so comfortable in a body when once xy had spent millennia as a particle that acted like a wave.

Castiel stands and walks to the window.

It is larger than xy would have expected in such a humble structure. Still, xy understands the purpose: the window looks out over the unpopulated side of the valley, and even xy who has watched more winters than there are snowflakes in the sky can see the beauty of this place. Sam chose well. Dean needs calmness and beauty, needs to rest, though the man would not admit to such. It is good that he has someone who will take care of him, who will understand what he needs when the man himself does not know.

It is good that that someone is not Castiel.

Xy takes up Sam’s knife and cuts xyr hand, letting the blood well, and anoints the sides and top of the window frame with three drops of xyr blood each. Castiel moves to each doorway, each window, and does the same for each. It is a simple charm, though a strong one: xy does not doubt that its protective ward will last longer than either man xy created it for, and perhaps longer than the angel that crafted it.

Xy wonders, briefly, if Dean would allow such protections being placed upon the Impala.

Xy decides not to ask. If given the opportunity, it too shall be blessed.

Castiel walks back to the couch and bends to pick up the book—a mystery—and perches on one of the overstuffed chairs, waiting.

* * *

And that is how Dean finds them: Cas half-naked, full-nerd, and Sam hiding in the kitchen.

“What did you do?” Dean asks as he walks in.

“Nothing! He just took it off!”

“Okay, that… wasn’t what I was asking at all. I meant the thing that looks like cookie dough but probably tastes like disappointment.”

“Hey, it’s not that bad—“

“Is that oatmeal? Are you trying to feed me oatmeal? Do you want me to die?”

“What did you want me to make, then?”

Dean holds up the grocery bag. “Uh, duh? S’mores?”

“For breakfast.”

“Hell yes. We are in the woods and there is a fireplace, Sammy. The hell else are we gonna eat besides s’mores?”

“You’re a child.”

“Then I guess that makes you a baby. Hey, you wanna mope in here, or do you wanna help me build the fire?”

“I dunno, you sure I wouldn’t put a damper on it?”

Dean sighs. “Puns, Sam? At a time like this? Come on. Make a fire with me. It’ll be awesome.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he follows Dean out anyway.

* * *

Sam can’t remember the last time they had a proper fire like this. Yeah, so it was indoors, but the fireplace in here took up like half the room, and Dean was determined the entire thing should be filled with flames. At first, Castiel observed, but then Sam caught his eye and stepped away from Dean. Castiel nodded at Sam and ghosted into place beside Dean. When his brother saw the angel, Dean threw his arm around him and pulled him in close to illustrate the Winchester way of marshmallow badassery.

Sam was still pretty sure Dean was the only Winchester who did this, but he never argued.

Still, watching Dean teach Cas made Sam uncomfortable. He shifted for a moment, then said, “I’ll take care of the chocolate if you guys get the marshmallows.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean said, brow furrowed, and Sam fled once more to the kitchen. Setting aside the granola, he got out a microwaveable bowl and broke up the chocolate bars into it. As that nuked, he took out a saucepan and poured milk into it, and then he just let his mind wander as his hands remembered what to do.

 

> _“Have you ever even touched a stove before?” Jess was always laughing at him, but he never really minded._
> 
> _“No,” he’d said. “Didn’t your father tell you not to touch hot things?”_
> 
> _“Then what makes you think it’s safe to touch me?”_

“The fuck is taking so long, dude?” Dean appeared in the kitchen, trailing an angel with marshmallow-sticky hands.

“I’m making a poor-man’s ganache.”

Dean stares at him.

“Chocolate sauce. For the s’mores.”

“You ever do anything normal, dude?”

“You know what, if you taste it and you hate it, you can make fun of me all you want. But this? This is awesome.”

“Ganouche, though?”

“Ganache.”

“Whatever. More like ga-douche. Right, Cas?”

Both boys turn to see Castiel licking the marshmallow off his fingers. For a few moments, no one speaks. Both Winchesters watch until, with one long, slow lick, Castiel finishes.

At which point he says, “I don’t understand why you would argue about chocolate.”

Sam blinks. “Thank you,” he says, although his voice sounds wrong.

Dean can’t seem to think of a response and only watches as Castiel walks over to Sam’s creation. He frowns down at the swirling concoction.

“S’mores seem designed to be messy.”

“Yeah, well, that’s camp food, you know?”

“No.”

Dean silently crows his victory behind Castiel’s back. Sam glares, but drops the expression when Cas turns to face him.

“Sam, I would like to try your ganache.”

“Well, uh, why don’t we just make the s’mores and you can just try it on graham crackers and not your hands? I mean, if you two left any marshmallows, which… whatever.”

“Of course,” Cas says, turning back to the den. “Dean only let me eat half the pack.”

Sam mouths ‘only?’ at Dean, who shrugs, points at Cas, and flaps his arms like a chicken.

Castiel pauses at the threshold. “My vessel may only have ventral eyes, but my awareness isn’t limited to sight.”

“He started it,” Dean says.

“Hey, you did the chicken dance!”

“Boys,” Castiel says, turning around, and both Winchesters look down. “Is this how the whole week is going to go?”

“No, Castiel,” Sam tells his shoes.

“Yeah, we’re sorry,” Dean informs the coffee table.

“Well, I hope not. Let’s just make s’mores now, okay?”

“Okay,” they say together.

* * *

After Sam instructs them on how to adjust their s’more construction to compensate for the ganache, they end up making about twenty. Being an angel, Cas devours the lion’s share, though Dean also makes a dent in them.

“Dude, I take it all back,” Dean says. “These are awesome.”

“Thanks,” Sam says. He closes his eyes and continues, “This is how Jess made them.”

There is a pause, and then Dean says, “Oh.”

Sam opens his eyes. “Hers were a lot better, though.”

Sam can almost feel how much Dean wants to run away, but then a warm hand grasps his upper arm. Cas says, “From what I have been told, Jessica Moore was a kind and loving woman. I would have liked to meet her.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking down at Castiel’s hand. “She was.”

* * *

That night, Sam is staring up at the ceiling, wondering if locking the door to the room he and Dean were meant to share would be too obvious a push. It’s midnight and Dean still hasn’t come in, and Sam hopes he doesn’t. Sam hopes that Dean isn’t enough of an idiot to ignore what’s right in front of him, what could be so wonderful. After all, if this place worked for him… His throat tightens, but after ten years he no longer cries for her, for the man he could have been.

But that doesn’t mean that he won’t dream of her tonight.

 

> _It’s their first Christmas together as a couple, and Jess is determined to teach Sam how to bake. The recipe she takes out is handwritten on ancient cardstock that’s soft at the corners. “My grandmother’s,” she says, and her eyes linger on the page in his too-large hands. He wonders what she sees there, what she wants with him. He can’t imagine taking a page from John’s journal and giving it so reverently to her. What could he ever offer?_
> 
> _Then she kisses him, and he loves her, and maybe it’s enough._


End file.
